


the gravel in our voices

by akingnotaprincess



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Angst, Barebacking, Daddy Kink, Face-Fucking, Families of Choice, Father/Son Incest, Felching, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mpreg, Panic Attacks, Parent/Child Incest, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingnotaprincess/pseuds/akingnotaprincess
Summary: All Malcolm could think was,Father, what have you done?It had to be his father. There was no other explanation for it. How else could it have happened?
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 14
Kudos: 113
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	the gravel in our voices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigo_inks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/gifts).



> I have so many thank yous. Thank you for the mods for running this and being amazing (also for congratulating me on such a large baby).
> 
> A thousand thank yous to everyone at the Prodigal Son Trash server. Everyone who supported me, cheered me on, helped me through my panic attacks, made me laugh, answered all my questions, sprinted with me at 2 in the morning, and lusted after my snippets. Without you this fic wouldn't be here. Thank you all. 
> 
> Thank you to S. for the super speedy beta.

Malcolm visits with his father every two weeks unless he's working on an active case. When he first visited his father after arriving in New York, he made a promise to keep coming back-- not only for cases but to 'catch-up'. Malcolm didn't necessarily _ want _ to. He successfully avoided Dr. Whitly for a few years shy of a decade. Life, work, and a four-hour driving distance made it possible. It was better that way. His relationship with his father hadn't exactly been healthy. 

It was something he never talked about. It was a secret he kept so close to his chest that no one knew. He wanted to keep it that way. When he saw Dr. Whitly again, he had no intention of picking up where they left off. 

Dr. Whitly clearly did not have the same intention.

Every time that Malcolm goes to Claremont Hospital to get his insight on a case, Dr. Whitly acted  _ professionally _ . Yes, he was mischievous, and dodged questions when it came to the girl in the box, and purposely left out information on his own notions about a suspect to see Malcolm's gears turn and figure it out by himself.

However, when Malcolm visits because of his promise, Dr. Whitly was more relaxed. He would slip innuendos into the conversation. Recite passages from various works by the Marquis de Sade and sprinkles passages of Shakespeare's love sonnets into the conversation. Occasionally sighing happily and saying, "Oh remember the good times we used to have, Mal? Right here in this room."

Every time he arrives back at his loft from going to Claremont, he immediately goes to his bathroom, takes a hot shower, and jerks off with his father's name on his lips as he comes.

Every. Single. Time. 

\------------

"I've asked Mr. David to stay outside today."

Malcolm twisted his body to face Dr. Whitly. He was sitting at his desk. On the desk were several open books, a large sketch pad, and charcoal pencils. It seems as though he had interrupted during his father's so called "me time". He is about to open his mouth to  _ apologise _ for interrupting, when he spots something more important.

"You're not in your cuffs." His eyes flick over to Dr. Whitly's lower back. "Or on the tether."

Martin slow claps. "You always were good at observing," he says sarcastically. "Yes, it appears I have earned some privileges for  _ good behavior _ ."

Malcolm scoffs. "Who did you consult for this time?"

Martin clicks his tongue and wags his pointer finger. "Now Malcolm, you know that I can't divulge that information."

Malcolm doesn't say a word, just looked at his father. Martin seems rather proud of himself. He's wearing a smug look on his face and his hands are folded in his lap. His legs are crossed, but he's leaned his chair back. He gives off an air of superiority. It is annoying. He looks _ good _ .

"What brings you here today, my boy? How are you doing?" There's a touch of eagerness in Martin's voice. Like this is the only human interaction he gets and is longing to hear news on  _ anything _ , no matter how mundane.

"I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by." It's a horrible lie. Martin wanted to see his father. That was simply it. In the beginning, he visited only because of the promise he made to come back. Over time Malcolm realized that he genuinely wanted to see him. Some weeks the highlight was his visit to Claremont. His father challenges him like no one else could. His father can give him a high that he can only get while solving a murder.

And Malcolm would be lying if he were to say that one of the reasons he visited  _ wasn't _ because of his past relationship with Martin. 

During his college years he struck up a physical relationship with Martin. He doesn't remember how it started. He knows that he loved it. That he was scared of it. He knows he felt ashamed because of it. Ashamed of how sick he was to fuck his own father. Ashamed that he found pleasure in it all.

He feels ashamed now because he still craves it. 

It ended the day he told his father he was going to Quantico. It wasn't that Malcolm regretted breaking it off, but he often felt that no one who he had been with since was as good as Martin. And how fucked up was that?

"You just happened to be in the Bronx on a Saturday night? Why?" When no answer came, Martin smirked. He hummed and tapped his chin. "I think you might have wanted to see me on your own. You wanted to come and see me so much that you came all the way across the city to see your old dad."

Martin smiles brightly when Malcolm doesn't answer and speaks again, "I've missed you, my boy. I've missed all of you. I miss the way we used to be. Do you know what I mean, Malcolm?" Martin didn't wait for a reply, and continued on. "You're so exquisite. God how you look when you come. I loved marking you up with my come. Biting your neck and leaving bruises on your skin. Marking you as my own. I wanted everyone to know. I wanted  _ you _ to know. I think about us all the time. Whenever you visit to see me, I want to fuck you into the wall. I want to see you come undone by my words alone."

Martin shifts in his chair and Malcolm's eyes pupils widen as he's fairly certain that he sees the outline of Martin's large cock. He swallows air to try and suppress a moan. He can feel his fingers starting to twitch. Malcolm curls his fingers into a fist, willing them to stop.

"There hasn't been an opportune time to tell you." Martin wiggles his hands to make the enficiebde that he's not restrained. "Nothing is holding me back. No tether. No cuffs. No chaperone. Only me. You. And the red line in the way." 

Malcolm can practically taste the tension in the air. He's trying to keep his breathing calm and even despite how his heart feels like it's racing. Martin is watching. Waiting patiently. As though he's not alluding to sex and is uneffected by the situation.

"Have you missed me too, Malcolm?"

Malcolm's eyes widen as he quietly gasps. He never expected for his father to ask if he missed being lovers, for Martin to be the one to show his cards first. Malcolm knows that he has a choice to make. It's more difficult than the one he made to return to New York after being fired from the FBI. He could have chosen anywhere in the world to be, yet he was drawn back to here. 

"I… I  _ have  _ missed you." 

"Really?" Martin's voice is low, dangerous. He parts his legs, spreading them wide. "Show me."

Malcolm crosses the room with calculating steps. If he does this, there's no going back. Not this time. If he goes over the red line...

The tips of his shoes are just shy of being up against the neat edge of the paint of the line. Malcolm stares at Martin, and Martin stares right back. His father's gaze doesn't wavier. In fact he's looking at Malcolm with some sort of amusement. Martin palms his growing erection that's beginning to tent against his pants. He's daring Malcolm to make the call. 

He doesn't remember moving his feet until he's kneeling in-between his father's legs. The empty space between his father's legs seems inviting. A space meant to be occupied, and Martin was offering Malcom to sit at his rightful place to be. 

He coaxes Martin to shimmy out of his hospital issued pants. Malcolm is able to take them off completely and folds them before setting down on the cold concrete floor. 

When Malcolm looks back up his eyes widen at the sight of his father's cock. He hadn't seen it in almost a decade, and he's pleasantly delighted that it's exactly how he remembered. Martin's cock is thicker than his own. There's a vein that runs along the length of the left side that Malcolm  _ loved _ to lick and kiss. It's already red and angry. Malcolm licks his lips. He's greedy. He's always been greedy when it comes to cock.

"Spit on it," Martin commands. He's looking down at Malcolm with hungry eyes. "Don't take your eyes off me."

Immediately, Malcolm gathers the saliva in his mouth and spits on his father's dick. He wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base and tightens his grip. He watches as Martin bites his lower lip as Malcolm squeezes harder. 

"Suck me."

With his gaze never Malcolm swallows Martin's cock whole. He gags a little when the head touches the back of his throat. Malcolm hears the filthy sounds that he's involuntarily making. 

It was heaven. It was so familiar and calming. It's perfect.

"Oh one day, my boy. One day I'll tuck you under my desk. I'll keep you there all day. Chained up so you'll have nowhere to go. You'll have my cock down your throat. Keeping it warm for me like the good boy you are. You'll be quiet. Not even Mr. David will know you're here."

Malcolm gags followed quickly by a moan as his father gives a testing shallow thrust into Malcolm's mouth. 

"Oh yes, my boy. You'd look even more beautiful with your lips around my fat cock, unable to do a damn thing until I say we're done. I'd fuck your face until your throat is raw." With that he grabs the sides of Malcolm's head, holding it in place, and pistons his hips shoving his cock further down Malcolm's throat. The pace is unrelenting-- fast and hard. Malcolm sputters and coughs but Martin doesn't pause to let Malcolm up for air. 

Malcolm reaches down and palms his clothed erection. He's not surprised to find a sticky patch from his own cock leaking pre-cum. This is the hottest thing he's done in years. Most of his partners were rough with him, but they had their limits. Malcolm wants to hurt. His father is the only one who has ever satisfied him. Malcolm moans and rubs his erection faster. He hasn't lost eye contact with Martin. His dark eyes stare down at him with an intensity that he's ever seen before. They're wild. Martin's mouth is open and teeth are clenched. He's clearly delighting in doing this-- being this rough. It's like all the years he's had of pent up desire is being released all at once. Malcolm is okay with that. He loves being a hole, a toy for his father to use.

"Oh how I've missed this. Do you know how you look? How you  _ sound _ ?"

Martin plunges his cock all the way down Malcolm's throat so his balls press against his chin. He stays there. Not letting Malcolm move. Malcolm gurgles and his throat contracts around his father's length. His eyes water the longer Martin stays down his throat. His father lets up-- pulling his dick out of Malcolm's throat in one rough motion.

Malcolm violently coughs, grabbing his throat. He needs to catch his breath. His throat feels like sandpaper and he needs a drink of water to relieve the pain. He sits back on his heels and rests his palms on his knees. Spit is running down his chin and coats his lips. He hasn't felt so good in years.

He's caught off guard when Martin's index finger curves along his jawline. The touch is gentle, a far different sensation than the treatment he had just received. Malcolm loves it. He leans into his father's touch as he cradles Malcolm's cheek.

"Oh good boy," Martin praises. "Such a good boy.  _ My _ boy. I've dreamed of this, you know. I dreamed of having you in my bed again. I dreamed of  _ us _ . We're perfect together, Malcolm. You know that."

He does know. Fuck, does he know.

"Go over to the bed," Martin jerks his head over to the other side of the room. "Strip. I'll be there in a moment." Martin turns away from him in the swivel chair and appears to ignore him. 

Malcolm stumbles to his feet. As he crosses over to the bed he undoes his tie and shucks off his coat. He starts making a pile of his clothes on the floor. It takes him a few tries to get his shirt off because he fumbles over the buttons. He bends over to untie his nice shoes and places them besides his growing pile.

His father isn't even looking in his direction. He's looking down at some paperwork, shuffling them around and writing down on some of the pages. He doesn't look like he face fucked his son moments ago. Martin looks calm and tranquil. 

He pulls down his stained slacks and his boxers. His reddening cock snags as he pulls down the boxers and he can't help but groan. The swivel chair creaks slightly which is the most he's heard out of Martin.

Malcolm finishes stripping and suddenly feels stupid. Here he is. In his father's cell in a mental hospital for prisoners. Completely nude. Waiting for his father to fuck him. He must be mad. Fucking crazy. 

He risks a glance out the window to see if Mr. David was seeing any of this, but is surprised to see that the guard is nowhere in sight. Malcolm is curious as to where he is. 

"Where's your guard?" 

"Hm? Oh, don't worry. He's nearby."

Malcolm doesn't bother questioning this out loud. Despite being locked up, his father still has quite a bit of money. It's probable that he's slipped Mr. David some cash to have some unlimited time for privacy. How long has Martin been waiting for this moment. How long has he been planning this? Malcolm tries not to think too far into that either. 

Finally, Martin gets up and strides over to the bed. He licks his lips as his eyes roam Malcolm's body. He's practically eye-fucking him-- excited about having a savory meal.

"Well, look at you." Martin says in admiration. "You look as beautiful as the day you left me." He saunters over and stands in front of him-- chest to chest. The fabric of Martin's clothes are rough and scratchy. He's not sure how his father could wear that everyday. Martin raises a hand and with his thumb and forefinger pinches Malcolm's nipple. Malcolm gulps for air as the touch is sent straight to his cock. Martin smirks as he twists harder, eliciting a stronger reaction. "Still sensitive I see."

"Please," Malcolm whimpers.

"Please  _ what _ ?" 

Malcolm opens his mouth and moans as Martin roughly grabs his ass and lightly spanks a cheek.

"Come on, speak up." 

"Fuck me."

"I almost wish I hadn't told you to take your clothes off," Martin admits as he slaps his ass a few more times. They're just teasing spanks, nothing hard that would leave marks. "I would have had so much fun undressing you out of those stuffy clothes." Martin unceramounsly pushes him backwards onto the cot. "Maybe next time." 

"If there is a next time."

"Oh, Malcolm. Don't be so foolish."

Malcolm grips the covers of the cot as his father opens him up with his fingers slicked with the hospital issued lotion. Malcolm hisses when he's breached, and Martin stops so he can adjust. He peppers kisses Malcolm's high bones and inner thighs to help calm him. 

Once he's opened up enough to satisfy both of them, Malcolm stops his father from entering him. "Wait. Shit. Fuck. Condom. I don't have a condom. Do you?"

Martin rolls his eyes. "Yes, Malcolm. Of course I do. It's standard for Claremont to issue condoms to their residents,” he says sarcastically. "No, I don't have a fucking condom. That was always your job." He looks down at Malcolm. His frown and worried eyes show that he's concerned. "Did you want to stop? It's fine if you do. Completely understandable. It's a risk. I'm clean, just so you know."

Malcolm sucks in a deep breath. "I'm clean too. I got tested right before I left D.C." He can't believe what he's about to agree to. "It's okay. It's okay." 

"You can say no at any time, and we'll stop." Martin reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind Malcolm's ear. "I don't want to hurt you. I  _ can't _ ," he stresses. "Yes, yes, we have a bit of a history, but that's all in the past. I fuck you rough because we both like it. This is new for us. It's up to you. Okay?"

Malcolm nods, giving his consent.

His father leans over and softly kisses Malcolm's lips. The moment he slips his tongue inside of Martin's hot mouth, is the moment when Martin enters him bare. Malcolm gasps and hisses at the burn. Martin abruptly stops and moves to pull out, but Malcolm grabs his wrist. "No, keep going."

They move slowly at first, getting used to each other's bodies after being apart for so long. It was the same, but also different. They were older, more jaded, had more experience than when they had last been together. His father is being more gentle than he's ever been. Malcolm can't recall a time when they had made love like this. They explore each other's bodies like they are new lovers. Malcolm runs his fingers through Martin's greying hair and memorizes the texture and where the grey begins and ends.

"God, Malcolm." Martin nuzzles Malcolm's neck. "I really have missed this. The way your body flushes and how your muscles move. How you clench around my cock." He nibbles the nape of his neck. "How you sound like a cheap whore when I wreck you."

Malcolm gasps for breath that turns into a long strung out moan the second his father bottoms out, his balls flush against his hole. Malcolm tugs at his father's hair and lifts his hips, eager for move. "Move," he urges. "Fuck me right. I can take it."

Martin growls and harshly bites down hard enough to break the skin. He licks and sucks at the wound he's made. He hasn't taken Malcolm's words lightly. Malcolm lets out a series of quiet groans,  _ uh, uh, uh, uh _ , every time his father bottoms out. Malcom's senses are going haywire. Between the rough sheets of the cot, his father's bare cock, the course material of the prison uniform, and his beard, his senses feel overloaded. It gets worse when his father runs his hand from his neck, down his body, finally wrapping his hand around Malcolm's cock.

Malcolm bites down on his father's shoulder to muffle his cries as he comes all over his father's fist. He can't help but moan like a slut as Martin continues to jerk him off after his orgasm has subsided. Martin's thrusts grow more fast, and more hard. Like he is letting his primal instincts take over. 

"Say it," Martin pants. "Say my name."

"Mar-- Oh!" Malcolm gasps in shock and feels dazed. His cheek stings from where his father had roughly slapped him. Malcolm didn't bother trying to hide his modesty, and whined-- wanting  _ more _ . 

"Say."

Fuck, he was beyond over stimulated at this point. He was a begging, sloppy, mess, withering beneath and coming undone by his own father. 

"My."

Martin took his hand that was sticky with Malcolm's come to reach up and pinch and twist his nipple. 

"Name." 

It took Malcolm a few seconds to comprehend what Martin meant. Malcolm moaned, throwing his head back, only for Martin to grab a fistful of his hair to look him straight in the eyes. He pants heavily as he stares back at his father. He sees lust, want, and  _ need _ . If he hadn't already come, Malcolm knows that he would have been tipped over the edge by that.

"Say my name," Martin growled ferally.

" _ Daddy _ ."

That's all it takes for his father to come. Malcolm expects for him to roar to let everyone around know of his claim. It seems more logical that when he comes deep, deep,  _ deep _ inside of Malcolm, Martin is tight lipped. He must have adapted the habit at Claremont. It would have been beneath him for anyone else to hear his pleasure, to hear his weakness.

Martin leans down and kisses the crook of his son's neck. He leaves a trail up his throat and sucks on his earlobe. "I love you," he whispers after he nips at his sensitive skin. "I'm not going to let you go.  _ Ever _ . Promise me, Mal."

"What?" Malcolm asks in a daze. He's fucked out and exhausted. Thinking is proving to be hard as his mind feels floaty. 

"Promise me. Promise me that you'll always be mine."

Malcolm turns his head to meet his father's lips and kisses him deeply. It's languidly, memorizing all the little things like the shape of his father's mouth and how his beard scratches his skin. 

"Mal," Martin says impatiently. "Promise me."

"I promise," he replies against Martin's lips. In his haze he's not quite sure of what he's exactly promising his father. All Malcolm knows, all he  _ feels _ is free. 

He feels his father's lips move upwards as he smiles. "Thank you, Malcolm." Martin chastely kisses him and he wants to chase them, but his father pulls away with a chuckle.

Malcolm whines at the loss when Martin pulls his thick cock out of his ass. He's surprised when his father shimmies down, forcing Malcolm's long pale legs apart. He nudges Malcolm's thighs and he gets the hint and maneuvers himself so his ankles are on his father's shoulders. His father's face is framed between his thighs. Martin is wearing a wicked grin. It only puzzles him more.

Malcolm gasps and his head lulls onto his shoulder as he feels Martin's mouth on his hole  _ sucking _ the come out. Malcolm writhes and gasps as his father continues his ministrations.

"Jesus," he hisses. " _ Fuck _ ." No one had ever done this to him before. The few times when he'd been fucked bareback he had to clean himself up afterwards. To be honest he hated it because it was such a pain. It was messy and he always worried over staining the bed sheets or a custom faux leather bench. But  _ this _ . What Martin is doing, licking his own come out of Malcolm's ass puts everything on a new level. Malcolm moans, grabbing the curls of his father's hair and pushing his face into his ass. His father lets out a long groan as Malcolm takes some control. He slowly tilts his hips up and down, up and down. Up into Martin's mouth, urging him to suck harder, faster, rougher. His father's alternates between sucking and slurping to giving his used hole tiny kitten licks to tease. It was fucking  _ flithy _ . The room echoes with the sounds of Martin eating him out and the shallow pants that escape from Malcolm's mouth. He wonders if he could come from only this.

It seems like an eternity to Malcolm for Martin pulls away and sits back on his heels. He has a wicked smile across his face and licks his lips. Malcolm whines at the sight.

"You did so good, my boy. I'm so proud of you." 

Malcolm's brain feels light. His negative thoughts are gone and instead is filled with the satisfaction that he was  _ good _ . 

Malcolm opens his mouth to speak, but there's a buzzing sound somewhere in the room. He zeroes in on his discarded pants lying on a heap on the floor near Martin's feet. He blinks as the buzzing continues and it clicks that it's his cell phone. Someone is texting or calling him. 

"Don't answer it," Martin growls. 

Instead of responding Malcolm scoots away, pushing his father to the side as he grabs his grey trousers and pulls out the phone. He unlocks the screen to see a text notification from Gil. 

> **GIL**
> 
> **+17185551000**
> 
> **Hey, kid. I have a murder for you. Double homicide.**
> 
> **(11:42 AM)**
> 
> **Meet at Church and Warren.**
> 
> **(11:42 AM)**

Malcom replies,

> **I'll be there in about a half hour.**
> 
> **(11:43 AM)**

He dresses quickly, ignoring Martin's protests. He can hear his voice, but he's not paying any attention to disphering the actual words. He methodically pulls on his underwear and slacks. Malcolm picks up his dress shirt with his toes and tosses it up in the air, catching it with his dominant hand. He slips it on and shivers as the soft fabric touches his skin. He's toeing on his shoes when his father's voice comes through loud and clear.

"Murder, then?"

Malcolm whips his head around to see his father's amused smirk.

"Ah, of course that got your attention." 

Malcolm scowls and finishes re-dressing. He hates how his father knows him so well. That despite the distance and years that separated them, Martin could still read him like no one else could.

"Tell me about our murder."

"It's not  _ our _ murder," Malcolm replies with a huff.

"Oh come now," Martin pouts. "I think after all this time you'd know better than to think that."

Malcolm pulls on his long coat and pats himself down to double check he has everything. He smooths down his hair so it doesn't look disheveled which would raise eyebrows to everyone who would be on the scene. "I'm  _ leaving _ ." He cracks his neck before walking the few strides to the heavy door. He bangs on it three times and waits to see Mr. David's face in the window. But before the man's face appears, Malcolm is grabbed by the collar and spun around. He's about to protest, but his father's soft lips brush against his for a brief second. Martin is teasing him. Even now. Mr. David could walk in at any moment and catch them. Martin seems to be  _ daring  _ him to recoil from the touch, but he can't. He never can.

Martin pulls away and cradles Malcolm's cheek for a moment before sliding it down to his shoulder. "Go get them, my boy. Expect a phone call from me later. I want all the details."

Malcolm stares up at his father in surprise and annoyance. He faces away when the eerie sound of the key unlocking the door. Mr. David is there to greet him with a silent nod. 

Malcolm leaves Claremont with a satisfied smile on his face.

\------------

Malcolm is always tired. That's nothing new. He's had chronic insomnia since he was a child. Added with the night terrors and sleepwalking makes sleep something that was a luxury. His body is accustomed to having such little sleep. He remembers the confused look on Dani's face when he told her that five hours of sleep was  _ amazing _ . Oh the privileged look of someone who actually slept. 

But, for the past few weeks he's felt exhausted. He doesn't remember ever feeling wiped out. He's not one to cat nap during the day. But that's what has his desk. He takes his shoes off and sits with his feet tucked under him. He'll be talking to Gil about something or other like discussing the details of a case for Gil's report, or debating politics, or trying to teach each other something new. Then he'll wake up feeling stiff from the position he was in. There would be a blanket tucked around him and the lights would be low. Most times Malcolm doesn't even remember going back to the station. 

His concentration has been less to be desired. His job is to think objectively and clearly. He needs his mind to be sharp and alert. Recently Malcolm has found that he misses more than obvious details (much to JT's delight). It's embarrassing. Dani had to repeat her question about how he liked to take his coffee.

His body was changing too. Either he was freezing cold even with his long coat on. No one else in the room would be chilled. Other times Malcolm felt burning hot. Nowadays it feels like that's all there is. He's never comfortable anymore. It's either he's so cold that he wishes he was wearing multiple layers or so hot that he shed his coat, tie if he was wearing one, and roll up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. If he was hot, he'd sweat so much that he'd started the habit of taking along a spare clean shirt, if he was able to change out of his disgusting one.

Whatever this was Malcolm didn't like it. He wants his body to go back to normal and _ now _ . He knew that Gil's worried about him. Out of everyone on the team he's known Gil the longest. He's always been there for Malcolm. They don't have that many secrets between each other. They've always been open like that with each other. Saving each other's lives could make anyone close. He tells Gil almost everything. He feels bad about the white lies. He feels bad that Gil puts the weight of Malcolm's mental and physical health on his shoulders even though that's not Gil's problem to deal with. Most importantly, he feels bad that he's never told Gil about the extent of his relationship with Martin. That's for Gil's own safety and for Malcolm's sanity. That's a secret that Malcolm will take to his grave. Gil knows him, and can read him in ways no one else can do. He sees in Gil's eyes that he's been watching him and has noticed the changes. They haven't brought it up, but he knows Gil is worried, and that makes him feel useless. There's nothing he can do to comfort Gil. Malcolm doesn't even know how to comfort himself. 

He's on a case that Gil, Dani, and JT have been working for a month with little to no leads. Malcolm was having trouble too. So he went to someone who would help. 

"Ah, Malcolm, boy. "Business or pleasure?" Martin is clearly proud of himself for his joke. He's grinning from ear to ear. His blue green eyes rake over Malcolm's form. He's definitely eye-fucking him. Martin isn't trying to hide it. Malcolm hoped he'd be less obvious. Mr. David is in the room today keeping a close eye on both of them. It makes Malcolm nervous only because in his last few visits with his father, Mr. David had left the room to give them privacy. Malcolm wonders if or what has changed.

"Business, Dr. Whitly," Malcolm replies coldly. 

Martin pouts, actually fucking  _ pouts _ . "That's a tad disappointing. I assume that you're here because you need my expertise." He's tied to the tether today, and handcuffed too. Good. It makes Malcolm a little more comfortable that Dr. Whitly isn't able to touch him today. He had a job to do. He sure as hell wasn't going to let Martin's sex drive get in the way.

Malcolm relays to Dr. Whitly the facts about the case including his initial impressions. Dr. Whitly isn't happy that Malcolm wasn't put on the case from the beginning. _So much time_ _wasted_. All the while, he's pacing back and forth the length of the cell. His eyes are always trained on Malcolm. His eyes turn a shade of deep brown as the conversation goes on. 

But Dr. Whitly is paying attention to the conversation. He asks good questions about the case, and also asks Malcolm questions to challenge him. Dr. Whitly wants to know intimate details to gain a better understanding of the situation. 

"Are you alright, Malcolm?" Dr. Whitly asks with concern. "You do look a little peaked." His eyes dart around the room until they finally settle on Mr. David. "Could you please get Malcolm a chair? We wouldn't want him fainting."

Before Malcolm can open his mouth, Mr. David nods to Martin and leaves the room.

Now they are alone. 

"My dear  _ boy _ ," Martin's voice drips with lust. "What's wrong? Tell Daddy all about it."

A shiver runs up Malcolm's spine and he's pretty sure that his pupils dilated for a second because of Martin's wicked smile. Why does he have such an effect on him?

He sighs deeply and stares up at the ceiling for a moment. He doesn't have to tell Martin anything. He doesn't owe Martin anything. Yet he has this thing deep inside of himself that wants to tell everything to his father. 

What's the harm?

"I haven't been feeling well for the past few weeks."

Martin abruptly stops pacing and stares at Malcolm as if he had never seen anything so curious before. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Care to indulge your old man?"

"It's nothing really."

"Yet," Martin says enticingly. "Yet you decided to offer the information willingly. _Something_ must be troubling you. Tell me." Martin's tone changes with the last two words. It's not a request, it's a demand. He wants to know, and he wants to know it _now_. Malcolm has heard that tone only a few times in his life, but knows not to fight with Martin like this.

"I just… I just haven't been feeling well lately."

Martin quirks an eyebrow. "How so?" Martin takes one step towards the line. "Tell me, Malcolm. What's wrong?" He takes another step. 

"It's  _ nothing _ ."

"It's bothering you enough that you thought to bring it up with me. Now what's wrong?"

Malcolm quickly rattles his short list of symptoms. He is trying to act like none of it is a big deal. He's fine. Really. He's fine. He swears. When Malcolm finally shuts his mouth he sees that Martin is at the line. Now they only stand a few strides apart. Malcolm gulps. He didn't think they'd get this close. He wasn't expecting to bring up anything that was not strictly about the case he was working.

"Malcolm," Martin whispers fondly and softly. It doesn't really fit with how Martin asks and the kind of person he is. He tries to move closer but is snapped back by the tether. "I wish I could touch you, my boy," Martin sighs with longing. "I just want to hold you. Comfort you. Can't you see how much I care for you? I know that's what you want as well." Martin studies him for a moment. "There's something I should mention. It's nothing to worry about--"

Suddenly Malcolm feels wrong. His father's words seem to disappear into the air. His ears are ringing and blocking out most of the noise.  _ What's happening? What's happening? What's happening? _

"Malcolm."

His heart is racing. It feels like it's beating out of his chest. He lifts a hand to rest over his heart. It's beating normally.  _ Thump thump _ .  _ Thump thump _ .  _ Thump thump _ . There's an ever increasing weight slamming down on his chest.

" _ Malcolm _ ."

His mind tends to run fast, taking in any information as fast as he could. He's always been like that. It's always helped him out with his profession. Now his thoughts refuse to stop. They keep going, and going, and  _ going _ . 

He feels alone and isolated even though he's not. He feels like he's standing here by himself dying and no one is there to help save him.

"For fucks sake,  _ Malcolm _ !" Martin's tether was straining as he kept trying to move closer. "Mal, please. Mal, listen to me. Mal, you're having a panic attack."

He feels like he's drowning. His ears feel clogged and his heart just won't  _ stop _ . It's a weight on his chest and fuck, fuck, fuck. It. Won't.  _ Stop _ . 

"Mal,  _ please _ . Breathe."

Malcolm feels rough hands clutch his own. There's cold metal sitting against the skin. There's a thumb rubbing the back of his hand. It's comforting. It makes him feel grounded. 

"Mal, you're safe. You're here with me. We'll get through this together. Just breathe."

Malcolm's mind is flooded with Gabrielle's voice. In his mind she's in front of him. She's dressed exactly how she had been during their last session. Her hair is up in her messy twist, held up by a green plastic hair clip that happens to be one shade off from her long-sleeved shirt. 

"Breathe, Malcolm." Gabrielle's voice doesn't sound like her own, but he listens to it anyway. "You're having a panic attack. It  _ will _ go away on its own. You need to accept that it is happening. Don't fight it. Don't overanalyze what triggered the attacks. It'll only make things worse for you. Do something else. Anything else that you find calming.  _ Anything _ . If you're in a public space and aren't able to be safe, try breathing. In and out, Malcolm. Deep breaths. Slow and even." 

He nods. He can do this. He's had so many panic attacks and this one is the same. He can do this. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Malcolm," a soft voice says. "It's okay. I promise you're fine. Malcolm, listen to my voice. You're doing so well. Keep breathing with me."

Malcolm does. He listened and obeyed. Whoever it is told him to take a deep breath. So he did. They told him to exhale. So he did. They repeated this a few times until Malcolm starts feeling more clear. His heart is still racing. The weight on his chest is still there. But how he feels like he can relax. That he's okay. 

"Come back to me, my boy."

It's Martin. It finally clicks that Martin, out of all the people in the world, is coaching him through a panic attack. 

Slowly Malcolm opens his eyes in time with his exhale. He blinks a few times to adjust to the light. He brings up the back of his hands and rubs his eyes. His father is inches away. Martin's cuffed wrists lay on top of his own. The cold metal dig into his skin because of the weight and stress that Martin's putting on it. Martin is actually touching him. It occurs to him that his father has been doing this throughout the panic attack.

"There," Martin soothes. "Welcome back. This should go away in a few minutes."

Slowly, Malcolm pulls away from his father's touch. He's recluntent to do so, but he feels embarrassed that he had a stupid panic attack in front of one of the only people he never wanted to see him so vulnerable. 

Martin's hands awkwardly come up to Malcolm's face and brushes his fingers against his cheek to wipe away the streaks of tears. "It's alright, Malcolm. Everything will be okay." 

Malcolm shakes his head, leaning into his father's palm. "No, it's not. It can't be. It never is."

The room fills with Malcolm's sniffles and Martin's quiet shushes and reassurances. 

"Malcolm, did you hear what I was saying before your attack started?"

He shook his head.

"Malcolm, I need you to look at me." 

Malcolm shook his head once more. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to look Martin in the eyes after what happened.

" _ Look at me _ ," Martin growls through his teeth.

It gets Malcolm's attention. His eyes open and stare into his father's. 

"Malcolm," he sighs. "I'm trying to tell you that--"

Suddenly they are both snapped back to reality when the heavy door creaked open and Mr. David walked through carrying a white fold out chair. Malcolm threw a look to his father to let him know that the discussion was over. 

Malcolm smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry that you had to go to the trouble, Mr. David, but I'll be on my way now." Malcolm wasn't very surprised to see that Mr. David didn't seem to mind whatsoever. Perhaps he was used to people leaving Martin's company rather unexpectedly.

Malcolm nodded his thanks to Martin. "Thank you, Dr. Whitly." His heart is still beating rapidly and he can't wait to go. Malcolm turns his back to Martin to leave the cell. He takes a sideways glance and thinks he sees his father smiling. 

\------------

The walk back from the hospital was in complete silence. Malcolm stares down at his feet as they make their way to where the Les Mans is parked several blocks away from the hospital.

Gil had enough. He was tired of worrying over Malcolm's health and well-being and drove him to the nearest hospital. It took four hours of waiting until his name was called. The doctors were perplexed. They couldn't find an obvious reason for him to feel so sick.

Then he got the MRI. That's when the doctors found it. The doctors sent him home with a disc copy of the MRI results and an apology that they didn't know what was wrong with him.

All Malcolm could think was, _Father, what have you_ _done?_

It had to be his father. There was no other explanation for it. How else could it have happened? 

Once they pull away from the curb and settle into traffic Gil breaks the silence. "Are you okay?"

"Really? You have to ask?"

"Guess not. You seem to be handling it better than I am."

Martin chuckles. "Gil, know me better than anyone in this world. You know I'm a walking human disaster. I'm a mess when things are perfectly fine." He tries to smile, but he simply can't.

They stay quiet while Gil navigates around the bystanders and misses a turn and has to double back. Malcolm's leg begins to jiggle, but he stops when Gil gives him a hard glare because he's shaking the car. 

"How?" 

Malcolm winces at Gil's harsh tone. It's different from the one he uses with criminals during interrogations and different from the exasperated one he'll use when he's over Malcolm's shit. Right now, Malcolm assumes that Gil is exhausted and done with life has thrown at them in the last few hours.

"I don't know," he says honestly. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up his usual slicked back style. "Maybe… Maybe… Maybe my father did something to me as a child." Malcolm blows out a puff of air. "It's not like it would be the first time." He feels his fingers begin to twitch. He curses and cradles it around his stomach… where… where… the baby is…  _ Martin's _ baby.

Fuck.

"But  _ how _ ? Gil asks. "How the hell did Martin Whitly implant a working uterus in you?"

"Surgery? Maybe? His field is for cardiology, but maybe he wanted to… I don't know, Gil. Get creative? He's smart. And given his background as a serial killer, maybe he wanted to try out different areas of expertise. Serial killers like to experiment sometimes." He is racking his mind to think of something, anything that could help him understand, no,  _ comprehend _ what his father did. 

"Maybe he used chloroform on me," Malcolm suggests. "Before it stopped working as a way to knock me out." 

A memory flashes in his mind.

_ He's around nine years old. He's not in a room he recognizes. It's not a room in the house. It's sterile and smells of bleach. All he can see is steel grey and white. He's lying in a hard uncomfortable bed.  _

_ His father comes into view above his face. He's smiling, but Malcolm can tell that he's concerned. "How are you feeling, Malcolm?" _

_ He tries to get up but he quickly finds that he simply can't. "Dad, what's wrong with me?" His words come out slurred and are slippery on his tongue.  _

_ "You had an accident, son. We've been quite worried. Oh no, don't move," he gently warns as he pushes Malcolm back down onto the bed.  _

_ "What happened?" _

_ "You fell from a tree. When you fell on a sharp stick punctured your stomach. I had to do emergency surgery. You'll have a scar, I'm afraid." _

_ It's such a vague explanation, and Malcolm has so many questions, but he can't think. Everything is groggy and slow. His father shushes him as he presses a foul smelling rag to his face. _

"How would it even work," Gil says out loud. It takes Malcolm out of his memories, which he's grateful for.

"Martin is a genius. Maybe he figured out a way for the  _ equipment _ to function." He gestures to his abdomen when he says  _ equipment _ .

Gil sighs. "Who do you think the father is? I don't normally ask about your sex life. Not since we had  _ the talk.  _ It's none of my business.  _ But _ , do you have an idea on who it could be? Did you have unprotected sex with anyone in the past few months?"

Malcolm's face pales. He feels like the blood is draining from his face. He's only had one sexual partner since coming back to New York. He already knows who it is. Malcolm takes a deep breath and on the exhale says, "Yes." 

"Okay," Gil seems a little relieved. "I'm not going to ask who--"

"It's Martin."

There.

He said it. 

Malcolm can never take it back. 

When he glances over, it looks like Gil has forgotten to breathe. His fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Gil's voice is laced with a protective danger, like a lioness roaring to protect her cub.

"Wh-- What?" He stumbles over his words. "Why would you want to know?"

"What? Malcolm." Gil's car slows to a stop along with the traffic. They're so far back that Malcolm can't even see the traffic light. "I would hope that you would trust enough to be able to confide in me that your father raped you."

Malcolm's eyes widen and his heart drops. Of course that's where Gil's mind goes. Of course he thinks Malcolm has the victim and Martin as the villain. Of course he jumps to everything but the hard truth.

The car crawls a few feet before stopping again. Malcolm feels a panic attack coming on. His breathing is starting to rapidly heave. His tremor is back, but in _ both _ hands this time. He's not able to hide this and it makes everything even worse. 

"Malcolm," Gil says urgently, cutting through Malcolm's thoughts. "Malcolm, calm down. It's okay. It's-- fuck." The car moves a few feet and then eases to a stop. "Malcolm, it's okay. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm here for you." 

"No. No, you don't understand." Malcolm gasps. 

"Malcolm, talk to me," Gil soothes. He starts to rub the back of his neck in calming circles. "What do I need to understand? What can I do?" 

"It wasn't. It wasn't. It wasn't." He wheezes and puts his head between his legs as best as he can.  _ This isn't happening. This is fucking  _ **_not_ ** _ happening.  _ He doesn't want to say it out loud, especially not to Gil. His relationship with his father was supposed to be a secret he took to his grave. This was never supposed to happen. He's not prepared to tell anyone. 

But he can't live with Gil thinking that his father raped him.

As fast as he can, and hoping that is sounds coherent, he blurts it out in one breath, "It wasn't rape."

Instantly Gil removes his hand from Malcolm as if he'd been burned. Malcolm refuses to look up. He can't. He doesn't want to see the look in Gil's eyes. He doesn't want one of the most important people to look at him like he's a monster. 

"What?" Gil's voice is small, hurt, and in complete disbelief.

"Martin didn't rape me. It was consensual." 

Every second the silence continues to break Malcolm's heart. This is why he never wanted to tell anyone about this. He isn't in a good place to lose anyone in his support network, let alone Gil. He can't imagine Gil not being in his life. He continues to wheeze softly, trying to hide his pain. He's sniffling as well, tears flowing over and down his cheeks.

The car finally moves again and doesn't stop. Traffic is finally moving. 

"I'll take you home."

That's all he says. Gil drops him off at his home, and promptly leaves without even a goodbye.

It takes fifteen minutes for Malcolm to climb the stairs to his loft. He keeps stopping and sitting on a step to break down. Moving is too much effort and he doesn't want to do it. What's the point of climbing when everything is falling apart?

  
  


\------------

>   
>  **DR. PATEL**
> 
> **+12125553685**
> 
> **I can schedule a video call for 10:30 tonight if that works for you, Mr. Bright.**
> 
> **(8:06 AM)**

Malcolm chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking of that time would be alright. He might be working on a profile, but he supposes he can take a quick break from working for an appointment. 

> **10:30 works just fine. Thank you.**
> 
> **(8:30 AM)**

Before he can put his phone back in his pocket, it vibrates again.

> **DR. PATEL**
> 
> **+12125553685**
> 
> **You're welcome, Mr. Bright. I will speak with you then.**
> 
> **(8:31 AM)**

He hired Dr. Patel not too long after confronting Dr. Whitly. Malcolm knows he's in this for the long haul. He researched extensively and found that Dr. Patel to be the best concierge obstetrician available that was in no way connected to his family. He's paying Dr. Patel  _ a lot _ for his digression. He likes the doctor. He takes the time to listen to all od Malcolm's concerns (and there's plenty), and his answers are thorough and is fine to repeat anything or dumb it down for Malcolm to undertand. He knows that the doctor likes Harry Potter. They've discussed things like which house they think they'd be sorted into (Patel is Hufflepuff while Malcolm is Ravenclaw). Patel tells him all about Harry Potter World in Florida. He went on vacation during the summer for his step-daughter's eleventh birthday. Malcolm plans to keep him after the baby is born. He'll be the baby's pediatrician. Malcolm thinks it's better that way, since he'll be the only doctor to know the origin of the birth. Plus, he'll finally have something to talk to about Harry Potter.

"Coffee?" Dani offers him a siriform cup as she sits down across the rickety table from him in the break room. 

"Uh, no thanks. I've been weaning myself off it."

Dani quirks an eyebrow at him, silently questioning his statement. She must have found it satisfactory, because she shrugs and takes a sip of the cup in her right hand. "Suit yourself. More for me. God knows I need it." She takes another sip, eyeing Malcolm above the rim on the cup. "What's going on between you and Gil?"

"What?"

"You heard me." She puts down the cup and leans over the table. "Don't think I didn't notice that you two aren't actually talking to each other if it's anything else but a case. JT has noticed too. He's worried. Not that he'd admit it. Did you and Gil have a fight or something?"

"Something like that."

"It must have been one hell of a big fight."

"It was. It really was."

"Care to share your thoughts?" 

Malcolm shakes his head sadly. "No, the fight we had… it's personal. Very personal."

Dani hums. "That's close to what Gil said."

"What did he say?" He's intrigued. 

"It's none of your damn business, Powell."

Malcolm hisses. "He used your last name. That's never good."

"No it is not." Dani covers his hand with her own. Malcolm can't help but marvel at the size difference. His hand dwarves hers. "Hey," she says to get his attention."I'm here for you, okay? I'm here. Whenever you need someone to talk to. We're friends.You can come to me for anything."

Tears threaten to form in his eyes, but Malcolm does his best to scale them back. "Yeah. Thank you, Dani."

He smiles as she leaves the break room. He watches as she goes down the hallway to the bullpen and disappears. Malcolm wishes he could tell her everything. 

\------------

Malcolm signs in at the front desk of Claremont. His signature is heavy against the paper and he messes up by writing a 'n' at the end of his first name so it reads Malcoln Bright. He doesn't bother to fix it. The woman at the front desk, bright and bubbly with a single faded pink streak in her hair, jots down the time next to his name. 9:32am. 

He already knows that route to his father's cell by heart, but he lets himself be led to it anyway. He's on autopilot as they walk. His mind is going over what exactly he'll say based on his father's replies.

"Malcolm, my boy!" Martin exclaims as if he's surprised. He knows better than to think he is. Malcolm knows that his father gets very few visitors besides himself. "What a pleasure to see you."

"Mr. David, can you please leave the room?" Malcolm asks politely as he can. "I would like to speak to Dr. Whitly in private."

He waits a beat. His father nods over Malcolm's shoulder. Without looking, he hears Mr. David leave the room and closes the door.

"Oh my boy," Martin breaths a happy sigh. "I've missed you so much. Have you missed me?" He doesn't wait for Malcolm to reply. "What is it today? Business or pleasure?"

"Neither," Malcolm snaps.

" _ Oh _ , interesting." Martin is completely intrigued. He steps forward. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Did you know?"

"You'll have to narrow it down for me."

Malcolm stares straight at his father, right in his eyes. "Did you know that I could get pregnant? That you could get  _ me _ pregnant?"

His father reacts how he was hoping that he wouldn't. Martin's eyes practically bug out of his head. He takes in a deep breath, his nostrils flared. There's a slight upturn of his lip. "Malcolm," he sounds elated. "Are you saying that I'm going to be a father?"

And there it is. Martin knew. Malcolm is right.

Malcolm turns on his heel and knocks on the door harder than he'd might too. 

"Goodbye, Dr. Whitly," he says, and doesn't look back as his father screams, and Mr. David tries to calm him down. He signs out of Claremont at 9:40am.

\------------

When Malcolm wakes up with a start, he's surprised to find that the sun's rays are shining through his window. He squints his eyes and shields them from the light. He must have gotten two or three hours of sleep. Pretty impressive especially for this recent streak. He must have been pretty tired. He doesn't remember even going to bed let alone strapping himself in and putting in his night guard. He recalls dinner (leftover chicken parmesan that he had delivered from Chazz Palminteri), watching a dessert baking show on Netflix, and skimming through a few cold cases that Gil had given him before their fall out.

Malcolm spits out his mouth guard and unfastened the cuffs that kept him from thrashing as he slept. Slowly he swings his legs over the side of the bed and is careful not to stand too fast. Malcolm holds the small swell of his stomach as he steps down from the platform and heads to his kitchen area. He's starting to show, and he's only four months along. He's read that it can happen to people with smaller frames. Anyone who notices the bump won't think he's pregnant. It won't be on their radar. Most likely people will think he's gained a little weight.

At the island all of his pill bottles are laid out in a neat row. One by one he swallows each pill as if it was second nature (which at this point it  _ was _ ). His hand hovers in the air when he reaches the final two bottles. Folic acid and prenatal vitamins. His hand trembles as he stands there, trying to psych himself into taking them.  _ I'm doing this for the baby. I'm doing this for the baby _ , he keeps repeating to himself. Malcolm takes a deep breath-- inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Quickly before chickening out he opens and closes both medications and swallows them without taking a sip of water. There. Done.

This was always the hardest part of his day.

Next he plucks a daily affirmation card from the card holder and reads it out loud.

"My body is the perfect home for my baby."

He rolls his eyes and tosses the card into a trash can. He put his face in his hands, elbows on the counter. The pregnancy affirmation cards he'd bought off the internet were proving to be useless. It could be that he perceived them as useless due to the nature of his pregnancy. This wasn't normal in any sense of the word.  _ Any _ sense of the word. 

Malcolm makes his way to Sunshine and unhooks the latch to her cage. She sings beautifully as she flies out of the cage and settles onto his left shoulder. He smiles at her gently, reaching up to caress her yellow breast. "Good morning, girl. I hope you're having a good day. I'm certainly not." Most of his days were complete garbage now. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Sunshine seems to agree with his assessment as she leaned into his touch before flying away to explore the loft. He goes through the motions of cleaning her cage. Technically he's not supposed to be dealing with that, but there is no one else to do it for him. He disinfects all the surfaces, changes the liner, and refreshes her food and water. It makes him feel better and more confident that he can take care of her. Maybe if he can do this, taking care of a baby will be a little easier.

Malcolm pulls out one of his yoga mats, puts on his soothing music, and starts his new prenatal yoga routine.

His phone buzzes while he's in Warrior One. He ignores it. 

He breathes in deeply. Exhales slowly. He transitions into Warrior Two. He is beginning to find that even though he isn't that far along, balance was becoming more difficult by a small fraction. It was something he read about when he first started researching pregnancies and what to expect. It was something he thought he wouldn't have to deal with for a few more months. He was experiencing it because he wasn't made for this…

Made…

His father's face flashes in his mind. Martin is dressed in his Claremont uniform with one of those soft cardigans. His hands are uncuffed and he's not on his tether.

"I made you, my boy," Martin cackles. "In every sense of the word." The hallucination of his father leans in closer, his lips touching Malcolm's neck. He sprawls his hand over Malcolm's stomach. " _ I made this _ ."

Malcolm gasps as he comes back to reality. Just in time he got his footing under control as his stance became unsteady. Malcolm stands to his full height and runs his hand through his uncombed hair. "Fuck," he mutters. Of course, just of course Martin was able to seep into his mindfulness routine. This is the one time during the day that he could let his brain relax. When he didn't have to think about his mile long list of issues. The one time when his brain didn't run a mile a minute. But Martin even ruined that. Like he's ruined Malcolm.

"Fuck this," Malcolm grunts. He stepped off his yoga mat, rolled it up, and placed it on its side in the corner. He isn't going to be able to remain calm enough to continue. He goes through a mental checklist of the things that he is supposed to do every morning. Pills, daily affirmation card, yoga… Food. He needed to eat food. He was still trying to get used to it. Malcolm was trying to eat more than junk food. He was trying to eat more protein and vegetables or whatever normal people ate everyday. 

His bare feet padded across the cold floor back to the kitchenette. He fishes through his fridge and pulls out a chocolate protein shake and a small bag of baby carrots. He hip-checked the fridge door and placed all of his breakfast on the counter.

The cell phone vibrates again. Without bothering to look at the caller he swipes the screen to ignore the call. 

Silently he eats the carrots. It seemed like each crunch verberated through the room. It seems like his home is quieter than usual. From his spot he could see Sunshine perched on the railing of the stairs, grooming her feathers. 

The phone vibrates once again. Malcolm let out a sound of frustration. For someone who wanted to be left alone he sure did get a lot of calls. "For fucks sake." He reaches over and grasps his phone to see who was bothering him. He flared his nostrils, pressed his lips into a thin and glared at the screen that read: Claremont Hospital. Why should he be surprised? He'd been dodging Martin's calls for several weeks. In turn, Martin was retaliating by spam calling him every day. Malcolm knew his father had limited phone time and used a good portion of it doing consulting. As much as his father was calling him, Malcolm could only assume that Martin was forgoing that. 

He wished Martin would leave him alone. Martin had done a fine job of ruining his life already. He didn't want a daily reminder.

The voicemail notification popped up on the screen. He knew it was from his father. Only a select few ever left voicemails: his mother, his sister, robocalls, and Martin.

Mother is on an extended and much needed vacation to a remote island somewhere off the coast of Thailand. She should be getting waited on hand and foot and spending her days in a beach lounge watching the crystal clear ocean waves crash against the shore while drinking a tropical wine. Mother made it a point that she would be completely unavailable during her time away. Which, due to what had happened between him and Martin, Malcolm is grateful that she's unreachable. He can't fathom facing her now.

He checked last night and Ainsley hadn't called him in days. Most likely she's still pissed that he'd been a no show to lunch  _ again _ . Five times in a row is enough for anyone to take the hint. Malcolm doesn't want her to know about his  _ delicate _ condition either. So he'll keep dodging her for the unseeable future.

Robocalls were flat out ignored. If the voicemail was from an unfamiliar number and only a few seconds long they were promptly deleted without a second thought.

That left Martin who  _ always _ left voicemails. Some days his father would be more obsessive than others and call him over, and over, and over. On his manic days the calls start off with Martin using a soft, tender voice with the words to match.  _ Oh how I miss you, my boy. Have I ever told you how much you mean to me? Maybe we should have some more quality time. _ Throughout the day the calls escalate to a level of him screaming at Malcolm.  _ Mal, I know you're there. Answer the phone goddamnit. We have too much to discuss. We're losing time  _ **_again_ ** _. I just want to  _ **_talk_ ** _! What's so wrong with that?! _

Malcolm turns the phone over in his hand a couple times, contemplating if he should listen to the latest voicemails from his father. The positive is that he'd get it the fuck over with. It wouldn't nag at him for the rest of the day-- ruining his concentration at working on his profiles and helping the team solve cases. The negative is that whatever Martin said could possibly fuck up his day. It wouldn't be the first time where he listened to a voicemail that got stuck in his head all day and couldn't be shaken off. The thing that is worse is how Malcolm tends to react to the calmer voicemails. His father has a way of knowing which words affected Malcolm and could melt his heart and feel pampered, loved, wanted. 

It's a bad idea and that he really shouldn't listen to the voicemails. _Just the last_ _one_ , he bargains with himself. He unlocks his phone, opens to the voicemail app, and taps to listen to the most recent message.

There's no pause of someone pausing after listening to the beep and processing that they can speak. No, Martin jumps right in once he's pressed play. 

"Malcolm," his father begins cheerfully. Malcolm supposes that's a good sign. "You must be terribly busy these days. Solving crimes and catching murderers. I taught you so well. I'm proud of you. Never forget that."

Malcolm double checks the app and sees that Martin's message is several minutes long. He has such an urge to grab one of his lollipops that he keeps out in a bowl on the coffee table. He decides against it. It seems a little silly to have a lollipop after eating a healthy snack. Then again he feels like he deserves it.

"Malcolm," Martin says calmly, but there's an emptiness behind it that sends a shiver down his spine. "I know that I've left you a wide range of voicemails. Some… tender. Some… a  _ bit _ harsh. It's quite difficult being left here-- trapped in my own mind. After getting you back, you were right, I was always terrified of losing you again. And it seems I have. Stop punishing yourself. All you are doing is making this worse for yourself. You must be so lonely. It doesn't have to be like that, Malcolm. It never had to be. I just want the best for us. For  _ all _ of us." There was a long pause, so long that Malcolm thought that he missed the end of the voice mail. Suddenly he hears his father sigh. "I love you, my boy. Come by if you want to deal with this problem together."

The phone clicked, a mechanical voice asked Malcolm if he'd like to save the message or delete it. Malcolm set his phone down on the counter top so it was out of reach. He rested his forehead in his upturned palms. Why the fuck had listened to it? Why had he thought it had been a good idea? How fucking stupid is he? How much does he like to indulge in being in pain?

Alone in his loft where no one else could see him, Malcolm chokes out a sob and several tears fall, dropping down onto his baby bump.

God he is so  _ alone _ . Every source he finds stresses the point of finding a support network during pregnancy. Malcolm  _ can't _ . He's a cis man whose father played God with his body, and now he's pregnant with his father's child. It's a dirty secret that he can't share. He's not telling mother or Ainsley until after the birth. He hasn't seen Gabrielle since he found out he was pregnant. Gil  _ abandoned  _ him. Malcolm has no one to lean on. He feels like he's drowning with no raft in sight and knowing deep down that no one will come to save him. 

\------------

Seeing a dead body didn't bother him. Strangely it never had. While researching about pregnancy, Malcolm had read in several sources that it was common for the sense of smell to change. Some scents that were pleasing before could be nauseating. Or even have a heightened sense of smell. Lucky for him he hadn't had any of those symptoms so far. He was grateful for it. If he couldn't take being at a crime scene with a decomposing body he'd be out of the job. 

This crime hits home. A fifteen year old girl was laid out by the shared dumpster for a mom and pop candy store and a Peruvian deli. It looked to be a sexual assault since she was missing bottoms and that she had been strangled by her own panties. Her legs are spread almost unnaturally wide like she's been posed. He sees that she has bruising around her thighs and on her cheeks. 

She was also pregnant. Visibly so. Perhaps seven or eight months along. It broke Malcolm's heart. 

Edrisa faces him and squeezes his shoulder. "Are you okay?" She looks so concerned over him. Her dark eyes flick down to his stomach.

She's the only one on the team who knows he's pregnant, besides Gil. She found out only three days ago. It had been purely by accident. He'd been an idiot and left his phone face up in the morgue. He'd gotten a text from his doctor and Edrisa saw the name, and by coincidence she knew who his doctor was and his field of study. 

Edrisa was more into the science of a cis man being pregnant rather than who was the other father. She's excited for him and loves to talk to him about the baby. She's very helpful actually. Her younger sister had recently given birth to a girl three months ago. From that she had some idea on things that he would need to get before the baby was born. He's been able to confide in her. He's needed someone desperately. She helped make everything not be as terrible.

"You don't have to stay. I mean, I  _ love _ seeing you work. You're so brilliant and insightful. It's not every day a girl meets a guy who's into dead people. I don't mean that you're  _ into  _ dead people--"

"Edrisa," he soothes. He smiles sweetly at her and places his hand on top of hers. "I'm fine. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here."

"Yes, you would."

Malcolm chuckles and Edrisa joins along and giggles. 

"Hey."

Both of them jump and face JT, Dani, and Gil walking and coming to a halt in front of them. JT jerks a thumb over to the corpse at their feed. "Maybe try and respect the dead?"

Edrisa clears her throat and pushes up her glasses, entering into professional mode. She rattles on about how the girl had died, talking with her hands as usual. He loves Edrisa. He's been charmed by her since they first met. He's glad that he has her in his life. 

Malcolm takes a better look at the body. He's doing what he's good at and taking in all of the details he can gather and formulate a profile. He can't help but feel depressed seeing her. She's so young, and had so much to look forward to in life. And now the life of her child was snuffed out. It isn't fair.

"What do we got, Bright?" Gil's commanding voice shakes the cobwebs from his thoughts. Malcolm stumbles through his initial profile. Gil doesn't look him in the eyes as he speaks. It's unsettling and cuts deeper than anything Malcolm could have ever imagined. 

He feels like he should regret it all, everything that led up to the point where he is now. But Malcolm can't. There were things completely out of his hands that he wished he had known about before he drove straight in, but he doesn't regret. 

Everyone departs their different ways. Edrisa stays at the crime scene to continue examining the body. Dani canvases the area for anyone else who is willing to talk. JT leaves to pick up meatball subs for the team after he checks on his Chihuahua mix. Gil stays. He hovers above where Malcolm is still squatting next to the body of the girl. Gil is just… staring at him. His face is unreadable, and his arms are crossed over his chest. 

Malcolm blew out a puff of air before standing to face his (ex?) friend. "What do you want, Gil?"

There's a flicker of pain when Malcolm snaps. "I wanted to talk to you."

"About?"

"You know what."

Malcolm bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to be a smart ass and say that he doesn't know what Gil wants to talk about-- to lure the words out of him. It's a bad habit. He knows what Gil wants, and Malcolm doesn't want it said out in the open. Come to think of it, Gil doesn't want to either.

"Right," he says slowly, drawing out the "i" of the word. "I thought you made it pretty clear that you didn't want to speak with me on a personal level ever again." 

At this, Gil finally loses his hard mask. "I know what I've done. I want to talk about it anyway. Would dinner be okay? Tonight? At your loft?"

"So you can bug out when things get too hard?"

"So I'll have some peace of mind that you're eating for both you and the…" he lets the sentence hang there.

Malcolm hums and digs his hands into his coat pockets. "Would nine o'clock be okay with you? I don't have much food, but we could do delivery?"

"I'll pick it up. Text me your order, kid." With that Gil turns on his heel and heads towards the street away from the crime scene. Malcolm watches him go, a heavy feeling building in his chest. It wasn't long ago when he and Gil would have left together in the LeMans. They'd exchanged theories about the case. Malcolm would try to change the radio station only for Gil to swat away his hand every single time. Gil would lecture him about something or other-- usually something that really didn't need a lecture. Malcolm would smile and laugh.

Gil reaching out was… big. Really big. Did it mean that he had forgiven Malcolm? Unlikely. Did Gil want to get in one final word before he completely cut Malcolm out of his life? Did he want to tell Malcolm how disgusting he was? Was Gil going to arrest him for having a sexual relationship with his own father? It was a crime in New York-- a price that paid anywhere from 10 to 25 years.

He feels like he doesn't know Gil anymore.

Malcolm surveys the crime scene for a final time and he was satisfied that he'd memorized all the little details. He hails a taxi, having five pass him by before one picked him up. He had a lot of time on his hands. There were multiple reasons that Malcolm suggested to meet at nine. First, it'd give Gil plenty of time to prepare physically and mentally. Well, Malcolm too. Malcolm could have some time to tidy up and put away anything that could make Gil uncomfortable (prenatal vitamins, the book What to Expect When You're Expecting). He wants to try and meditate to help him calm down before Gil arrives-- in case he's in for the worst.

He wants to do something before he has dinner with Gil.

"Where to?" the taxi driver asks over his shoulder and pulls out into the traffic. The meter starts to run. 

"Claremont Hospital."

This is such a fucking bad idea.

\------------

"My boy," Martin greets as Malcolm breezes into the room. After Mr. David closes the door Martin rushes forward to cup Malcolm's jaw and bring him up in a deep kiss. "Oh my boy, I have missed you. You know that you worry your old dad every time you leave through that door? Sometimes I wish I could keep  _ you  _ tethered." He let out a low, maniacal chuckle, smiling ear to ear.

Malcolm backs away from his father's touch as if he's been burned. He smooths down his suit and coughs. "Good afternoon, Dr. Whitly."

Martin tsked. "Oh come now, Malcolm. I think we're a long way past  _ Dr. Whitly _ ." 

Malcolm trudged on. "I see that they let you out of your handcuffs and off your tether again." He tried to sound casual, yet puzzled, even though he already knew the answer to his question, and already knew that it was becoming more common than not these days.

"I still have friends and benefactors who want me to be happy. If that means not being tied down for a few hours?" Martin moved his head from side to side like he's weighing two options. "Who is to deny me of my wants? Now," Martin clapped his hands. "How are you doing?" His blue eyes raked over his son, taking in his body and assessing what he saw. "Are you sleeping? Eating? Morning sickness? It's so silly that it's called that, isn't it? It's not like throwing up is delegated to happening only a few hours a day." Martin lightly laughed at his own observation. "I may not be an  obstetrician, but I care about your health. And," he nodded to Malcolm's stomach. "Our child."

Malcolm heaved in a great sigh, his shoulders raising and lowering. Better indulge him. "Sleep is shit. I've been getting nightmares every night."

"That can be normal. Very common in pregnancy. You've always had night terrors, so it makes sense if they have only worsened. What have they been about?"

"Nothing in particular," he lies. "I never remember them." He does. He almost always does.

"You're lying."

Malcolm bites the inside of his cheek. "It's none of your business, Dr. Whitly."

Martin narrows his eyes and glares at him. He doesn't say anything for several seconds, leaving them in an uncomfortable silence.

Malcolm takes the time to look at his father,  _ really _ look at him. Martin's hair and beard are wilder than the last time he visited. He assumes that it hasn't been cut since then. The cardigan was different than the usual tan one he wore. This one was a light pastel blue with round white buttons. When he looked at Martin's face, beyond the cold and calculating mask he always wore, Malcolm was surprised at what he found. He notices the deep bags under his eyes meaning he's either getting little sleep or stress, perhaps both. His thumbs impatiently tap against his knuckles. It's quite unlike his father to be like this. He seems tired, physically and perhaps mentally. Perhaps even worried.

Martin's voice clips through the air. "How are you doing with your diet?"

Malcolm shifts his stance so he's standing a little wider. "I've been _ trying _ to be better with eating. It's hard. I've added some protein."

"That's good, Malcolm. I'm proud of you."

A shiver went up Malcolm's shine. He'd always lived for his father's praise. The nature of  _ why  _ he craved it had evolved over the years to what it was now. At thirty-two years old, his father's words aroused him. He hated to admit it to himself.

He was fairly certain that his father knew how his words affected him. He had to. 

"Um." He tried to recall his father's barrage of questions. "No morning sickness."

"Oh ho, that's lucky. It's rare for someone not to get it. Your mother," Martin whistled. "She had morning sickness for her entire pregnancy. For both of you. Very horrible stuff. It exhausted her. And me of course. I hated seeing her in pain." He searches Malcolm's face like he's looking for something in particular. "Anything else bothering you?"

_ Other than that my own father impregnated me, and yet that despite what he's done, I'm still in love with him?  _ But Malcolm doesn't say any of that. "Not really. Besides being completely in the dark about how any of this will work out." 

"I'm in the dark like you, my boy. It's new territory for both of us."

"Well whose fault is  _ that _ ?" Malcolm snaps.

Martin's lips press into a thin line and there's a feral look in his eyes. "How was I to know what would happen? I'm not Nostradamus."

"You're not one to  _ forget _ , Dr. Whitly. Or to not think things through to the last minuscule detail. Or not know the possible side effects,  _ Dr.  _ Whitly."

"I'm not apologizing for it," Martin scoffs.

"Well maybe you should," Malcolm said spitefully. "Maybe you should finally understand the consequences of your actions for once in your fucking life. Understand how you ruin everyone around you. Maybe you can talk about it in group therapy. I'm sure the therapist would love to hear you admit your wrongdoings."

"I don't regret it."

It hits Malcolm like a ton of bricks to the chest. "Excuse me?"

" _ I don't regret it. _ " Martin repeated slowly, announcinating each word.

Malcolm doesn't want to admit it, but he doesn't regret it either. He never had kids in a future plan. He felt as though he'd be the worst parent in the world with all of his mental issues. He could barely manage himself. How was he going to manage another human being that would depend on him? He found that he felt protective over the baby. It wasn't here yet, but he wanted the best for it. He tried to imagine what they'd look like, what kind of activities they'd like, what would their temperament be like? He loved it. The way the baby was conceived was morally wrong, but Malcolm tried his best to move past it. For the baby.

A few moments passed within neither of them saying a word. They stood there awkwardly, staring at the other to see who would crack first. His father's eyes were stern, clearly watching and waiting for Malcolm to back down.

With a sigh, Malcolm yielded. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed to compose himself with what he was about to say. He didn't want to seem desperate, or angry, or accusing. It needed to be as cool as if he were talking down a murderer. He raised his head and looked his father straight into his cold eyes.

"Is that why you fucked me?"

Martin raised a questioning eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't understand your line of questioning."

"Why did you fuck me?"

Martin quirks his head to the side. "I wasn't the only willing participant, Malcolm. It takes two to tango as they say. Maybe you should be asking yourself the same question. Why did  _ you _ want to fuck me?"

He  _ has _ . God knows he has. Malcolm has been running the question in his head over and over for months. All he gets is that he's sick. He's fucked up with so many issues: PTSD, depression, anxiety, hallucinations. Add that he's been having sex with his father on top of all that? Malcolm doesn't want to even try and unravel that mystery. He's afraid of what the answer could be. He doesn't want to try and comprehend or accept how much of a monster he is. 

"Did you fuck me," Malcolm paused to compose himself. His hand is beginning to shake. "Did you fuck me just so you could have another child?"

Before Malcolm could finish his sentence, Martin closed the distance between them. He gently grasped Malcolm's hand. His touch was soothing, familiar, safe. His father rolled his thumb against Malcolm's knuckles-- back and forth, back and forth. Finally, once the tremor subsided, Martin raised Malcolm's fist to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, his eyes never leaving Malcolm's the entire time.

"Never." Martin reached over and with his other hand he cupped Malcolm's cheek. Malcolm couldn't help but lean into the touch. His body was starved for it. "Malcolm," Martin stressed the word and said it so tenderly that Malcolm couldn't help but melt a little. "I could never use you. I would never use you like that. You do believe me, don't you?"

Malcolm knows better. He knows that his father cannot be trusted, not entirely. His father's secrets have secrets. He plays games and withholds information just so he can see Malcolm figure it out on his own and be proud of his son. His father also murdered twenty-three people. _ At least _ . Malcolm knows all of this, yet he nods yes. 

Martin's smile is infectious. "Good." He leans down and places a gentle kiss into Malcolm's hair. He rests his cheek there for a moment, and wraps his arms around Malcolm's back. "I love you, Malcolm. I could never hurt you. Ever. I could never hurt our child."

Malcolm nods, and reciprocates his father's hug. His arms wrap around Martin's shoulders and his fingers curl into the wild, greying hair. He breathes in his father's scent. He smells like the bland smelling shampoo the hospital issues to all of the inmates. The scent of ink and pencil lead lingers on him from the hours Martin spends at his desk drawing and writing.

Martin kisses his hair again, then moves down to his forehead, eyelashes, ears, cheeks. Martin plants them gently and with care. He's trying to comfort Malcolm-- to make him feel loved and whole. And Malcolm knows it's working.

He's not sure what he's thinking-- his body seems to react before his brain can catch up. He rips his hand away from his father's grasp, and in one swift motion pulls at the curly strands of Martin's hair. Malcolm pulls him down for a bruising kiss. It's eager and desperate. There's teeth and spit and Malcolm doesn't care how messy or unromantic it is. He needs it. He fucking _ needs _ this. 

" _ Daddy _ ," Malcolm breathes against Martin's mouth. "Daddy, please fuck me." He nips at his father's lips. "Make me scream."

The next thing Malcolm knows is that he's being pushed up against the wall by his lapels. He hits the wall hard and it takes the breath out of him. He registers Martin's processive growl before Martin bites down on his shoulder. Malcolm lets out a surprised gasp that quickly turns into a moan. He leans his head to the opposite side to give Martin more access. He's half-hard and already feels his cock straining against his slacks. Malcolm wraps his arms around his father's shoulders and thrust his hips forwards and grinds Martin's leg. Martin groans into his skin and bites down on his throat hard enough to break skin. Malcolm relishes in the pain. 

"Do that again, Daddy."

He can feel Martin's smile. "Where's your manners? Say please."

"Please, Daddy." He groans when he feels Martin's growing erection against his leg as he rubs his own body upwards for friction. "Please, Daddy. Please, please,  _ please _ .  _ Fuck me _ ."

Martin gently kisses and licks at the spot that's quickly turning into a bruise. "Well since you asked so nicely. Who am I to deny you?"

He roughly manhandles Malcolm to turn him around so his front is flat against the wall. He presses himself up against Malcolm's body and grinds his erection between Malcolm's ass cheeks. "You fucking love this don't you? You love Daddy's cock, don't you?"

" _ Yes _ ," he hisses. "Yes, I love Daddy's cock. Just please--"

Malcolm bites his lip when his father's arms wrap around his middle and undo his pants, and hooks his fingers under the elastic of his underwear and pulls them down to around his knees. He whimpers as Martin's hands leave his skin, and he can hear footsteps.

"Wha-- What are you doing?" His voice trembles. He looks over his shoulder to see his father retreating.

Martin smirks as he walks backwards to the opposite of the room. "I have work to do, my boy. Your arrival interrupted my work. Be good and open yourself for me while I finish."

"Are you serious!?"

His father doesn't respond. He smiles until he sits down in his chair and swivels until his back is to Malcolm. He watches as Martin picks up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper from a stack and begins to write. "I won't ask again, Malcolm."

He stares at his father as he licks and sucks at his middle and pointer fingers. Malcolm makes a scene of fucking his own fingers and makes sure they are shining with his saliva. Malcolm is flexible and only has to arch his back to touch his hole. His middle finger circles his rim and gently pushes inside his body. He closes his eyes and slowly lets out a long moan. " _ Fuck _ ," he gasps. Malcolm crooks his finger, hitting the perfect spot. He pants, and pants, and pants. Martin's cock isn't even in him yet, but he already wants to come. 

He wants Martin to see this. He's begging with his eyes for his father to even take a peak. But he doesn't. Martin still has his back to him, jotting something down on the paper and humming a little tune to himself.

He adds a second finger along with the first and loves the burn as he scissores himself. "Oh  _ God _ ," he moans, lost in his own pleasure. He shoves his fingers in and out as fast as he can. 

"Don't you dare come yet."

Malcolm leans back, resting his head on his father's shoulder. He hadn't heard him get up. He opens his eyes and looks into Martin's face. Hungry eyes stare back at him, pupils blown wide and unashamed. Malcolm fingers himself faster at the sight. Malcolm yelps as Martin yanks his fingers from his ass, and pins both hands above his head. "Don't move them until I say so."

Martin pushes his legs apart a little wider to broaden his stance. Then his father bends his own knees, and without a warning thrust into Malcolm. The pace is fast and brutal. He's already feeling overstimulated even though they have just begun. All Malcolm can do is focus on the smooth red wall that he's pressed against and his father's grunts that match every time he rams into Malcolm.

"Come on, my boy," Martin whispers hotly into his ear. "You said you wanted to scream." He reached around to Malcolm's front with both hands-- one wraps around his bump, and the other grabs his aching cock and starts to jerk him off.

Malcolm's mind goes blank as he doesn't hold back his pleasure and begins to pant louder and louder. He thinks he's starting to babble. What he's saying he's not sure. He's too far gone to care.

"Scream for me, Malcolm."

Malcolm claws at the wall with his fingertips as an orgasm rips through his body. He let his body fall apart into his father's arms. Martin clings to him tighter, grunting more desperately as he chases his own release. In his final thrusts Martin digs into skin so hard that there would be bruises later. 

They stay there-- exhausted-- mouths open panting. Martin takes Malcolm's hands and guides them away from the wall. His father lifts his chin and kisses his lips. It's unhurried. They take their time to enjoy the moment. Malcolm's brain supplied the word romantic. He could actually pretend that what was between them was normal for a second.

The kiss is broken when Malcolm pulls away. He feels a vibration against his leg, where his pants are pooled around his feet. Somehow Martin is able to keep his hold on him as Malcolm bends down to find and grab his phone.

> **GIL**
> 
> **+17185551000**
> 
> **Hey kid. I need your food order. I'm stopping by the cafe that me and Jackie would take you.**
> 
> **(7:27 PM)**

"Shit," he curses. Of course he'd forgotten that Gil was coming over. When he and his father were  _ preoccupied _ , Malcolm seems to forget that the outside world and all of the problems in it even existed.

Even after all the trauma and heartache his father put him through, Malcolm would do almost anything for his father.  _ Almost _ .

Malcolm untangles himself from Martin and smooths down his suit. "I have to go." 

"Wait, no, wait," His father roughly grabs his thin wrists and pins him to the wall so he can't move. "We're not finished here. I'm not done with you yet."

"Let me the fuck go" Malcolm isn't kidding around. He makes sure that his voice and stoic facial expression shows it. "Let me go now. Don't make me use threats."

Martin glares at him menacingly. There are times that Malcolm is frightened by the serial killer part of his father. Sometimes it leaks out from his perfect facade he puts on everyday. It's not too often that Martin directs it towards Malcolm. He's sure that his father is doing it now to intimate him and get what he wants. But Malcolm is better than that. He's more than that. 

Malcolm's cell phone buzzes again and when it does that's when Martin pulls away. "He's such a cock block." He grimaces at Malcolm before he tucks himself back in his pants and walks away. 

It doesn't take that long for Malcolm to get ready to go this time. Soon enough he's good as new and knocks on the door to let Mr. David know he's ready.

"Malcolm," his father says in a sing-song way.

Malcolm refuses to look over his shoulder. He just walks out the door without saying so much as a goodbye. He stopped briefly as Mr. David closed and locked the door to Martin's cell phone. He writes out a short text to Gil about what he wants for dinner. It's  _ way _ more than he usually would ask for, and most likely the majority of it will go in the fridge as leftovers to eat over the course of the week. After he's sent the text Malcolm glances up to the door and sees his father through the unclean glass window. Martin is standing with his profile to him. His hands are behind his back. His eyes are closed and head tilted up towards the ceiling. The light cast from the window onto Martin makes him look angelic. The shadows from his curly hair made it look as if there is a halo above his head.

He looks beautiful.

\------------

Gil arrives ten minutes late. It doesn't surprise Malcolm in the least. Gil had a tendency to be late to events that stressed him out. Malcolm buzzes Gil in and leaves the door open since most likely Gil has his arms full with all the food. When he finally sees Gil, he finds that he wants to burst into tears. This is the first time he's seen him outside of work in months. He does his best to keep it all in. Gil looks exhausted. Malcolm hasn't really noticed before. There's deep bags under his tired eyes. He's slumping a little, far different from his usual posture. Malcolm hasn't seen him look this bad in years-- not since Jackie died. 

"Hey," he greets meekly.

"Hi." Gil shakes one of his arms and there's the rustle of plastic bags shaking. "I brought food."

"Uh, yeah. Come in." He opens the door and steps aside. Gil smiles his thanks and catches Gil glancing at his stomach as he passes by. 

They're silent as they take out the food from the bags and containers. Malcolm sets the places at the island and Gil takes out and sorts the food. Gil even goes ahead and puts some of the food he bought into Malcolm's fridge without asking. It's all domestic, and it only makes him ache for what they had. Summers spent in the Arryos' small kitchen-- everyone singing off tune and bumping into each other just to breathe. 

"I have questions," Gil says after they both start eating their sandwiches.

"I assumed you would. Ask away."

"How far along are you?"

"Four months."

Gil nods. "Okay. Are you seeing a doctor?" Gil looks worried. Maybe he's anxious over his and the baby's health.

"Yes. A concierge doctor. Very discreet."

"What do they think of all this? I mean it's…  _ unconventional _ ."

Malcolm shrugs. "We're doing the best we can. It's sort of like a regular pregnancy when you think about it. I mean I have… the  _ parts _ now. When the time comes we'll do a c-section. We're going to pick a date since it's unlikely I'll have contractions. We're still trying to work on the details of where to do the c-section. Hospital is probably out of the question." He sighs and then takes a bite of his sandwich. "The baby is doing fine so far. We'll be able to find out the gender soon."

He takes a sip of his water. "Bright, what about after the baby is born? Have you thought ahead that far?"

Malcolm nods. "I'm going to adopt it. Say I'm the biological father and that the mother died in childbirth. I've been working with my doctor and a lawyer to make it happen." 

Gil nods. "Good. That's good."

"I never thought I'd be a parent." Malcolm fiddles with the plastic silverware that came in the take out bag. "I'm completely terrified."

"I think most people are."

"I've been reading books, getting advice from the doctor, following mommy blogs. It's still overwhelming."

"I can bet." Gil looks like he wants to ask something. He keeps opening and closing his mouth. 

"What do you want to ask Gil?"

"Do Jessica and your sister know?'

Malcolm has suddenly lost his appetite. "No. I'm not telling them about the baby until after it's born. It's easier that way." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "They don't know about me and my father either. They  _ can't _ know."

An electrifying silence fills the room. Malcolm feels more awkward than he has in a long time-- especially around Gil. Sunshine's tweets make everything more bearable. 

"Why, Malcolm. Just why?"

"I dunno. It just... _ happened _ one day."

"Has he been touching you since you were a boy?"

Malcolm jerks back. "What? No! No, Gil! This started while I was in college."

"I don't know if I should be relieved." Gil leans back on the bar stool, crossing his arms. "Look, Bright. I  _ can't _ accept your relationship with your dad. I just  _ can't _ . That doesn't mean I don't want to help you. I figure you'll need all the help you can get."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Jackie. She would have so angry at me. Told me what an asshole I've been. She would have been in love with your baby, no matter the circumstances. She probably would have smacked me for the way I've been treating you. So I need to change. For her. For me. For you, and now for your baby."

Malcolm scrunches up his face. "I can't have you run away again. I can't deal with another person walking out of my life because they know the truth about me. If you want to be part of my life, warts and all, you need to stay. If you don't think you can handle what's happened to me, then I need you to go."

Gil puts an arm around Malcolm's shoulder and squeezes the back of his neck. "I think I'm in this for the long run, kid. Looks like you're stuck with me."

"Well, I'm glad you are." Malcolm hasn't felt this light and happy in a very long time. He must look like a damn fool, but he can't stop smiling. 

They drift into easy conversation after that. Malcolm tells Gil about an auction he's thinking about going to because there's an original 1873 Whinchester repeating rifle that still  _ works _ . Gil chides him about needing to baby proof his weapons collection, but Malcolm assures him that he's already planned for that. Gil shares some office gossip and tells him about a Filipino desert he recently made that he thinks Malcolm will like. It's sweet and sticky-- just up his alley. 

It feels like old times. A sense of normalcy in all the chaos.

\------------

Malcolm is allowed to go to Claremont for a visit practically any time he wants. He's only been turned away on the rare occasion when his father has been locked up in solidarity. Since Malcolm keeps odd hours anyway, it ends up being something to do when his brain is racked with a profile or if he's lonely, but doesn't want to admit it. Not a good excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. 

The baby has been keeping him up all night. Malcolm still finds it interesting when his skin seems to jump whenever the child kicks or punches, but sometimes the baby won't stop and it is fucking painful. All Malcolm wants is some comfort, and his is the only one who can properly give it.

Martin is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he steps into the cell. His voice is sleepy and unguarded, "Malcolm? What are you doing here?"

Malcolm waits for the door to close to respond. "I couldn't sleep. The baby is keeping me up."

"Oh how so?" He's sitting up now, more alert.

"They keep kicking," he says uncomfortably. He's looking at his feet as he speaks. "I thought maybe?"

"Come here," Martin pats his lap and holds his hands out for Malcolm.

Malcolm shuffles one foot in front of the other until he is towering over his father. He manages to straddle his legs even though it's rather awkward. He rests his head on Martin's shoulder, his face facing the curve of his neck. Martin wraps one arm around Malcolm's back and the other hand rubs circles into Malcolm's scalp to help calm him. Martin kisses his temple over and over. It's soothing. So much so that he's getting a little sleepy.

Martin hugs Malcolm against his body, and Malcolm returns it. He's grateful for everything his father has done.

"My boy."

**Author's Note:**

> Join us all at the Prodigal Son Trash Server. [Click here](https://discord.gg/N2UqbY5).


End file.
